


The Snakes

by impalaloompa



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: And in love, Canon-Typical Violence, Established Relationship, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Scenes of torture, Threats of Rape/Non-Con, geralt is feral, jaskier is kidnapped, miled sexual content, the boys being soft, why cant i be nice to these two?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 22:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,746
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22513312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impalaloompa/pseuds/impalaloompa
Summary: He had never cried before.But sitting next to Jaskier, lying on a healer’s bed, broken and pale and so fragile, he did cry.He wept. Uncontrollably.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 30
Kudos: 1038





	The Snakes

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and feedback are greatly appreciated.

The early morning sun spilled through the wicker framed window, lighting up the small room in a warm glow.

Geralt woke, blinking and frowning in his grogginess. This wasn’t his room. 

As wakefulness kidded his brain into gear, he remembered the night before, the stuffiness of the tavern, the good music, the fine wine and ale, the kissing, the heat, the touching, the passion, the taste, the intoxication, the moans, the whimpers – 

He became very aware of the gentle breathing to his left. He sighed, relaxing back into his pillow, as that warm, fluttering feeling coursed through him again.

Geralt turned slightly, being careful not to wake the Bard, and took a moment to just look at him.

It had been nearly a month since Jaskier had, in the heat of an argument, blurted out that he was in love with the Witcher. The devastation and embarrassment that burned in his face the second after had cause Geralt to question… everything. Many things finally made sense, many others didn’t, and it had taken him a long time to respond.

When he did, the words out of his mouth had deeply surprised them both.

“Good,” he had said.

“I think I… feel the same…about you,” he had said.

They had a long talk that night. The first time Geralt had ever really engaged the Bard in serious conversation. Puzzling through emotions and questions and fears until all they could do was sit together in silence.

“What do we do now?” Jaskier had asked.

“See what happens next,” Geralt replied.

A week later they had slept together. It had been nothing like anything the Witcher had experienced before. Jaskier was loving and tender and gentle. He was incredibly responsive to Geralt’s movements and touches and the noises he made were almost sinful. Listening to the Bard’s laboured breathing and thundering heart as they moved together had driven him wild. Jaskier’s smaller frame pressed into the straw mattress, Geralt above him, manipulating him in ways that enticed the most delicious of sounds and feelings. When Jaskier came, the stuttering groan mixed with garbled sweet nothings pushed Geralt over the edge and he came deep inside his Bard. Ecstasy and bliss and… love overwhelmed him in that moment, and he had kissed Jaskier so passionately and deeply that the Bard practically melted underneath him.

Last night had been messier, driven by need and longing and lust. Geralt thought he had hurt Jaskier when he had cried out, but he quickly realised that it was pure, feral, pleasure. Jaskier had fallen asleep first, curled tightly against the Witcher’s chest, still trembling as he came down from his high. Geralt relished in his closeness, his scent, his hot breath on his cooling skin. He had never wanted to let him go.

As he watched the Bard sleep, he couldn’t help but reach out and brush a lock of that dark hair behind his ear.

Jaskier stirred, not opening his eyes.

“Are you watching me sleep?” he husked.

“No,” Geralt grumbled.

“Creep,” Jaskier smiled, cracking open one eye.

Geralt brushed his cheek with the pad of his thumb, pausing at the corner of Jaskier’s mouth and then tracing his soft, pliable lips.

Jaskier hummed under his touch and let his eyes flutter shut again.

“Jaskier,” Geralt sighed, his deep voice vibrating in his chest.

“No,” Jaskier buried his face in the pillow.

“I have to go,” Geralt shifted his weight in the bed, not really wanting to get up and leave this cocoon of tranquillity.

Jaskier grumbled into his pillow then looked up at Geralt, his blue eyes bright and playful.

“Fine,” he moped, “But when you come back, you’d better make it up to me for leaving me behind.”

“Hm,” Geralt rolled out of bed and went in search of his pants.

Jaskier watched him, head propped up on one arm, watching his every move with a warm expression on his face.

It wasn’t often Geralt let him come on hunts anyway. Usually when he did, Jaskier nearly always ended up in some sort of peril, but he had hope that he would get to see his Witcher slay the Kikimore that had connected its burrow to the local mines and was terrorising the workers. He needed new material for a song and Geralt was terrible at giving him details and getting information from the miners just wouldn’t be the same.

He sighed, flopped out of bed and shimmied on his clothing as Geralt buckled his last belt.

“You sticking around for breakfast?” Jaskier asked him, pulling on his boots.

“No, I can’t take Roach because the paths down to the mines are too narrow. It’ll take almost half a day to go on foot,” Geralt collected his swords and waited for the Bard to join him at the door.

“You could take Roach… and me and then you can leave us when the path – “

“No. I need you here. Safe and out of harms way,” Geralt kissed him deftly on the lips, trying to convey the unspoken fear of not wanting to put him in danger.

“Besides,” he mumbled into Jaskier’s mouth, “who else will greet me when I get back.”

“Fuck you Geralt,” Jaskier pushed him away, smile playing on his lips.

***

Jaskier watched the Witcher stride away from the village until he could no longer see him. 

He knew Geralt would come back, he always did, but he still couldn’t help the pang of worry of what if he doesn’t this time.

The Bard shook himself, took one last look at the horizon, then returned to the tavern.

One of the patrons greeted him, applauding his playing from last night. Embracing his dramatic flair, Jaskier bowed deeply, thanking him, assuring of another wonderful night of musical spectacle. 

The other patrons ignored him, not that there were many people milling about the tavern at this time in the morning.

He charmed breakfast out of the barkeep, promising that he would be paid in full, plus a little extra when the Witcher came back and settled at a table with a weak ale and his notebook in front of him.

He decided that he would probably go for a walk later but for now he was content to scribbling musings and possible lyrics. 

Its wasn’t long before his breakfast was brought to him, but he wasn’t served by the barkeep. Three men in black, hooded cloaks surrounded his table. One tossed the plate of food on the table and sat on the bench next to him, much too close, and the other two sat opposite him.

Jaskier swallowed hard, a feeling of unease quickly rising through him.

“Morning gentlemen, how can I help you?” he forced a smile, reaching for the bacon on his plate.

The man next to him slammed his hand on the plate, and Jaskier jumped back, his heart hammering in his chest.

“You’re the Bard. The one what follows the Witcher,” it wasn’t a question and the man who spoke had a dark expression.

“Indeed I am. If you’re looking to hear of his many great deeds, I am playing again tonight, right here in fact, and I warmly invite you to – oh fuck,” Jaskier went rigid, fear spiking his voice as a cruel looking blade was pressed hard into his side, “Now – now I’m sure we can talk, sort this all out like rational men. You don’t need to –“

“Shut up,” the man with the blade snarled, he nodded to his companions and they rose. Jaskier was forced to his feet and marched out of the tavern.

***

There was a deep ache running through his arms and into his shoulders as he stumbled behind his captors. His wrists had been bound with rope which was rubbing his skin raw, and a long length of rope attached him to the back of the saddle of the leading man. The other two flanked him, also astride mighty horses.

He had twisted and fought and jeered and threatened. Each of his actions had been rewarded with a sharp blow and he had resigned himself to silence to avoid further pain.

He wasn’t sure how long they had been travelling, definitely a few hours and he was just glad his time spent with Geralt had him used to walking long distances.

Mentally he tried to remember their route so that if he escaped, he could find his way back. A left turn at this crossroads, straight ahead at the next, a large outcrop of boulders, a copse of trees, farmland in the distance with a small village, another turn in the road, but it all very quickly bled together and Jaskier couldn’t concentrate with the pain in his writs and arms biting with every step.

The only thing he had to hold onto was that Geralt would find him. The Witcher would track him down and get him out of trouble like he always did. 

As the sun sank behind the far-off mountains, the men slowed and found a spot to make camp for the night.

Jaskier was roughly hauled over to a tree and bound to it. He let himself slump down, glad to rest his tired legs. He tried to get comfortable, to ease the strain in his shoulders and arms and eventually found a position leaning against the tree that gave relief.

His captors busied themselves with setting a fire and organising their packs.

They hadn’t spoken much on the journey so Jaskier knew very little about them except that the man who had threatened him with the blade seemed to be in charge. 

The men started chatting when bread, wine and meat was passed around, their conversation quickly turning merry.

Jaskier’s stomach growled. He hadn’t eaten since last night and he knew that he also needed water.

He shuffled slightly and that caught one of the men’s attention.

Jaskier kept eye contact with him. The man had a pointed chin and locks of blond hair spilled out of his hood which he still had up.

“Water?” he managed to say before the man threw a stick at him.

Jaskier flinched back, then grimaced with pain as his shoulder seized up. The men laughed.

The Bard rested his head against the tree, trying to ignore the chill in the air as night settled in around them.

His eyes were fluttering shut when another stick bounced off his head.

“Oi Bard,” the man he had tried to ask for water sneered at him, “Sing us a song.”

The other two men laughed; the leader slightly more reserved than the other.

Jaskier just looked away. He heard the man rise and he scrambled to get away when fists were clamped into his collar and foul breath swirled in his nose.

“I said sing,” the man snarled in his face.

Jaskier glared at the man defiantly.

“Need water,” he growled.

The leader laughed at this, properly, fully. He looked to be in his middle ages, a rough black beard met with a crop of tidy black hair. He rose with his water skin and offered it to Jaskier. The man holding him let him go and he quickly took the skin, gulping down mouthfuls of water.

“He got balls this one,” the leader patted Jaskier on the head as if he were some mutt along for the ride.

Jaskier jerked away from him and the water skin was snatched from his hands before he had had his fill.

“Now sing,” the blond one spat at him again.

Fearing more pain, Jaskier sat up straight and thought quickly.

“Where the west meets the east  
A great river flows  
In its depths, rock and stone  
But only one knows  
There’s a danger there lurking  
Stealing their breaths  
And Geralt of Rivia  
Sunk it to its depths.”

Jaskier sang, voice trembling slightly. His captors didn’t seem to notice as they carried on talking. Jaskier swallowed hard before starting the next verse, praying to any god who was listening that Geralt would come for him soon.

***

As dawn crested the horizon and spilled golden light on the world, Geralt of Rivia, the Witcher, triumphant and drained, approached the village he had left almost 24 hours before.  
He had a cut on his forehead and his clothing was ripped at his waist and there was a thick black goo still clinging to his ashen hair, but the gleam in his amber eyes caught the sun as it slowly ascended the sky. 

Hunting down and fighting the Kikimore in awkward mine shafts and haphazard tunnels hadn’t been easy but he had a heavy pouch of coins on his belt, so the quest had been worth it.

His only thought now was to get back to the tavern, clean up, and spend the morning with his Bard.

He reached the village with pictures of bright blue eyes and crooked smiles and warm embraces. This was still very new to him, allowing himself to feel so deeply and freely and he was enjoying the peace that came with it.

Geralt pushed open the door to the tavern, expecting to see Jaskier waiting for him, but he wasn’t there.

Probably still asleep, he mused to himself.

Geralt took the stairs up to the rooms two at a time, excitement fluttering in his gut like a trapped bird. 

Jaskier wasn’t in his room. He wasn’t in Geralt’s room either. 

The Witcher frowned, his expression setting hard.

He thundered back down the stairs and slammed his fists on the bar, making the barkeep jump.

“Where’s the Bard?” he snarled.

“He – he – he left,” the barkeep stammered, fear swimming in his eyes.

“He left?” Geralt growled.

“Yesterday morning – not long after you did. With – with – with three other men,” the man was trembling.

Geralt threw himself from the bar and stormed out of the tavern.

He forced himself to stop. To think. To try and control the rage and fear coursing through him.

Jaskier wouldn’t just leave. He was taken. 

The Witcher moved away from the tavern, sniffing in deeply as he went. There were many scents lingering on the crisp air but, yes, there was Jaskier, soap, and forest and… fear.

Geralt glowered at nothing in particular. He rushed over to Roach in the stables who was shuffling restlessly.

“Come on girl, we got –“ Geralt spotted something attached to her bridle. 

There was a note, and pinned underneath it was Jaskier’s notebook.

Geralt went stiff with cold.

He snatched the note and read.

‘We’ve got something that belongs to you.’ Underneath the scrawl was a crest. Two snakes twined together, devouring the sun.

“Fuck.”

***

If he had thought he had been sore yesterday, it was nothing compared to the pain he was in today. 

The cold of the night had cramped his muscles and stiffened his joints. He was practically being dragged along by his captors as they moved deeper into the forest.

Where the rope dug into his wrists was excruciating and his fingers tingled from lack of circulation. If he couldn’t play his lute after all this…

He cursed as the rope was yanked and he took a few stumbling paces forward. 

“We are here,” the leader announced.

Jaskier looked around him and here appeared to be a deserted forest clearing.

“Um,” he spoke up, “I don’t mean to be rude, but are you perhaps two bricks short of a wall? There’s nothing here.”

“Shut up,” Jaskier was smacked hard on the back of the head by the blond man who had dismounted beside him and the blow caused him to bite his lip.

Jaskier spat blood onto the grass.

The leader had also dismounted and withdrawn the blade he had threatened Jaskier with. He presented the blade to the nearest tree.

“Is he alright?” Jaskier asked, fear making him brave. Or foolish. 

“I said shut up,” the blond man backhanded him, sending Jaskier to the ground. 

Then Jaskier felt it, the tremble in the earth. He scrambled back to his feet watching the ground in the centre of the clearing pulse then cave in. The dirt cleared from descending stone steps leading into darkness.

“Fuck!” Jaskier yelped when he was roughly man handled towards the hole in the earth.

The decent was difficult, with the leader striding down first, leaving the two others to half drag, half carry Jaskier down with them.

The crushing darkness was all he could see, smell, hear and feel, and Jaskier was struggling to breath.

Suddenly bright light flooded around them and Jaskier had to blink his strained eyes into focus. 

They were standing in what looked like a banquet hall. Long table in the middle, chairs either side. One of the chairs was missing. Torches bracketed to the wall with dancing flames and a grand fireplace with a crest above it carved deep into the stone. Two snakes twined together devouring the sun.

Jaskier tried to look behind him but could no longer see the dark stairwell leading back up to the surface.

He was marched towards the top of the hall where a woman stood that he hadn’t noticed before, draped in the same black cloak as the men.

Her face was angular, and her long red hair sat at her waist. She fixed Jaskier with a cold stare and Jaskier’s breath hitched in his chest.

“Welcome back brothers,” she said in a low drawl.

Jaskier’s captors nodded to her.

“And Welcome Bard.”

“Um… thank you?” he stammered.

A fist was jammed into his gut, knocking the wind out of him and if it hadn’t been for the men holding him, he would have keeled over.

“You do not speak to the High Mother,” the blond man growled.

“Take him this way, and I will prepare him,” her eyes never left Jaskier and the Bard balked at her words.

Again, he was half dragged, half carried into an anti-room off the great hall where a chair sat in the middle. The missing chair from the banquet table. He was slammed into it, rope cut around his wrists and then he was retied to the chair.

He sat quivering, breathing hard and fast. He was a rush of emotions and the only thing keeping him coherent was that Geralt was coming for him.

The men left the room and closed the door and he was left with the High Mother. She stalked around him and he tried very hard to keep her in sight.

“Interesting,” was all she said before turning her back on him and rolling out a cloth mat on the table at the back of the room which she had taken from inside her robes.

To Jaskier’s horror he could see several knives splayed out on the cloth.

“Now – now – hang on. Right? Just – just – hang on,” he tensed against the ropes and she approached him, wielding one of the ornately carved blades.

“This one is my favourite,” she breathed along the blade, her breath clouding the perfect silver and then melting into nothing. 

Jaskier was shaking as she drew the blade under his chin and then dragged it down his arm. The blade didn’t cut, but it was sharp enough that Jaskier could feel it.

“Who are you? Why are you doing this?” he whimpered as the blade stopped on his hand and tilted between his fingers. 

“Your Witcher,” she grinned at him.

“He’s coming for me,” Jaskier glared at her.

“Oh, I’m counting on it,” a cruel smile pulled back her lips exposing her imperfect teeth.

With a quick motion she stabbed the knife down into Jaskier’s thigh until it hit wood.

Jaskier screamed. 

The woman left the blade buried in his flesh and went to retrieve another one from the table.

Jaskier’s breath sobbed in his chest as the pain stole his vision for a moment.

The High Mother twirled the blade delicately in her fingers as she walked around him again.

“Why?” Jaskier hissed through gritted teeth.

“I need to bottle his emotions. Witcher emotion is a very rare and difficult ingredient to come by. Rage is always more powerful of course, so the more you bleed,” she slid the second blade into his other thigh, slowly, stretching the seconds so that blood welled up from the wound and sneering at the noise escaping from Jaskier’s already raw throat, “the angrier he will be when he finds you.”

“You’re insane,” Jaskier spat at her through sharp inhales.

“Maybe,” she smiled at him and went to retrieve another knife.

***

The Witcher had been riding as hard and as fast as he could push his mare. He knew he was close. 

He was forced to slow down when Jaskier’s scent took him into a forest, not wanting to break Roach’s legs tripping over roots and bracken.

She was breathing heavily, and she was exhausted, but she could feel her master’s fear and pushed on for him.

Eventually they came to a clearing and Geralt dismounted. Something caught in the back of his throat, a sharp metallic tang. His nostrils flared and he spotted a patch of grass on the edge of the clearing.

Jaskier’s blood spattered the green.

Geralt snarled. Pure, primal rage. It was so intense that his muscles locked up and he shook, his amber eyes burning.

This is why he shouldn’t have let himself get close to Jaskier. Witcher’s weren’t supposed to feel emotions, it made them weak, susceptible to influence. If you care about someone, they can be used to hurt you. That damn Bard. 

Geralt sucked in a breath and stalked round the clearing. The air smelled of freshly turned earth, but the clearing was flat and grassy and undisturbed. He stopped for a moment, trying to remember what little he knew about the Order of Ad Anguis.

They were a brotherhood of humans, trying to tap into chaos and control magic. 

They worshiped the old gods, particularly, the snake god of the night. 

They were structured very similarly like the monk’s hierarchy back in the large cities. 

They made blood sacrifices to their gods when trying to manipulate magic into spells.

They had a flare for the dramatics.

Geralt shooed Roach out of the way so that he could get a clear view of the clearing. He dragged his gaze over every blade of grass, every tree until he spotted a knot in the trunk of an elder tree to his left. It kind of looked like a snake head.

Geralt poked it with his finger. Nothing happened. So, he rammed his sword into it instead. That worked.

The ground trembled, the earth opened up and the Witcher stood at the top of the dark steps.

He looked back at Roach who was munching on the grass. She’d be okay. He started his decent.

The deeper underground he got, the stronger the reek of blood filled his senses. He could practically taste it. There was no mistaking who’s blood it was and Geralt tried to ignore his churning stomach. 

He felt the tight space around him suddenly vanish and light erupted from the torches and fireplace in the banquet hall. 

Geralt saw him immediately. Bound to a chair at the long central table. Blood pooling on the floor around him.

“Jaskier,” Geralt thundered. 

He pulled the chair from the table, Jaskier whimpering at the motion, and knelt in front of his Bard.

There were four blades. One in either thigh, one in either forearm. Jaskier was barely coherent, his head lolling from side to side as Geralt tried to bring him back.

“Jaskier,” he lifted the Bard’s chin and when blue eyes met amber, his already slow heart stopped altogether, “What have they done to you?” 

“Geralt,” the sound was tiny and the Witcher almost missed it, “behind you.”

Geralt spun round and cast Aard. The telekinetic wave pushed across the room at deafening speed, taking out the chairs that got in its way and almost reached the woman standing at the top of the hall, before she threw her arms up and blocked it.

Geralt rose slowly. Fists clenching.

The woman with red hair spread her arms again and the shadows on the roof seemed to quiver then spill down into the hall. They slithered their way towards Geralt like snakes, poising and lunging at him.

He swung with his sword, but it was like cutting smoke.

He was forced back as the shadows engulfed him, wreathing around his arms and legs, binding him and pushing him down. They held him there on his knees, furious and helpless.

The woman had spun the chair around so Geralt could see Jaskier.

“Let. Him. Go,” he thundered.

“Yes, good, get angry Witcher, embrace that rage,” she preened, bending down to dip her fingers in the Bard's blood. She smeared it on her lips then dragged her fingers down her face leaving five bloody lines. She stood behind the chair and placed both hands on Jaskier’s shoulders.

The Bard flinched at the touch.

Geralt could feel the shadows pulling at something deep within him.

“It’s fascinating, that you would take this human as your companion,” the High Mother splayed her hands on Jaskier’s chest, “I wonder. Have you claimed him yet? Made him yours?”

Her hands slid down his chest and rested just below his stomach. Jaskier was trembling violently, doing his best to resist her and fight back.

“DON’T YOU DARE,” Geralt roared. The shadows, they were feeding off him, he could feel it, and he didn’t know what to do.

The woman flashed him a wicked smile and dipped her hands under the waste band of Jaskier's pants. The Bard went rigid, tears streaming down his face as she took him in her hands and his body betrayed him.

It was too much for Geralt.

He exploded.

A shockwave of power tore round the room, ripping the shadows to shreds. He stood, panting, his eyes glowing, his teeth bared.

“Stop him!” the High Mother shrieked. 

Several men dressed in black ran into the hall and Geralt sliced each one down with out even looking. He only had eyes for the woman.

She backed away form him, trembling, trapped between him and the table.

He towered over her.

“I don’t understand,” she howled.

“Don’t touch my Bard,” he growled.

He put his hands on her and snapped her like a twig. As her body hit the floor, Geralt’s power began to ebb and he stumbled into the table. Every fibre of his being ached. It took him a moment to gather himself.

“Jaskier,” he turned in blind panic.

The Bard didn’t respond.

“Jaskier?” Geralt shook him.

Still nothing.

“Fuck.”

The Witcher strained to hear the Bard’s heartbeat. It was there, faint and weak, but it was there.

“Just hold on Jaskier, you’re going to be okay.”

***

He had never cried before.

But sitting next to Jaskier, lying on a healer’s bed, broken and pale and so fragile, he did cry.

He wept. Uncontrollably. 

The healer had assured him Jaskier would make it. That he would be fine, but Geralt knew he’d never be fine again. Not really.

All he could do was wait for Jaskier to wake up and find out the damage and the toll this would take on him. And he promised Jaskier, over and over, that he would be right there with him, helping him through this.

"I should have just stayed. In the tavern. In the bed. With you."

He told Jaskier that he loved him. And he meant it. He had never told the Bard those exact words before and regretted every moment not telling him sooner.

Days stretched into a week and Geralt never left his side.

One morning, when Geralt had been dosing in the chair next to the bed, Jaskier stirred.

“Geralt?” 

The Witcher was on his feet in an instant, pulling Jaskier into a tight hug.

“Easy there,” Jaskier cooed but not releasing his grip from Geralt. 

“I’m so sorry. You were supposed to be safe at the tavern. I didn’t want you getting hurt,” Geralt husked into Jaskier’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault,” Jaskier hummed.

Geralt leaned back to look at him. Really look at him. He took Jaskier’s hands.

“I love you,” he said.

Tears brimmed in Jaskier’s eyes and he broke down. Everything that had happened overwhelming him at once.

Geralt held him as he cried.

“It’s going to be okay,” he rumbled, “I’m never letting you go again.”


End file.
